Passion's Promise (36 page)

"Jesus, darling, I feel like I didn't even get to talk to you yesterday. Are you already going out now?"

"Yeah, but I'll be back early today. I just have so much to do, and we've got to get back out to San Francisco in three days." Three days. Where had she gotten the idea that they would be spending time alone in New York? Time to walk in the park, and talk, to lie in bed at night and think aloud, time to smile at the fire, and giggle over popcorn. It wasn't going to be like that at all. It already wasn't The hearing was less than a week away now, and at his insistence, she was sticking close to home. He had been adamant about that. He had enough to think about without worrying about her.

He left ten minutes later, and the promise that he'd be back early went by the wayside. He walked in at ten that night, looking tired and nervous and worn, reeking of bourbon and cigars, with dark rings under his eyes.

"Luke, can't you take one day off? You need it so much." He shook his head as he threw his coat over the back of a chair. "Just an afternoon? Or one evening?"

"Goddammit, Kezia! Don't press me! I have too fucking much to do as it is." Gone the dream of peace before the hearing. There would be no peace, no time alone, no rest, no candlelight dinners. There would be Luke coming and going, looking ravaged, up at dawn, drunk by noon, and sober again and spent by the end of the evening. And nightmares when he finally allowed himself a few hours of sleep.

A canvon had opened between them, a space around him which she couldn't even begin to approach.

He wouldn't let her.

On their last night in New York she heard Luke's key in the door and turned in her seat at the desk. He looked pathetically tired, and he was alone.

"Hi Mama. What's doing?"

"Nothing, love. You look like you had a bitch of a day."

"Yeah, I did." The smile was old and rueful, the lines around his eyes had deepened noticeably in the last few days. Luke sagged visiblv in his chair. He was beat.

"Want a drink?" He shook his head. But tired as he was, there was a familiar light in his eyes. It was as thoueh the old Luke had finally come home . . . the one she'd waited weeks, and now davs for. He was worn out, exhausted, but sober and alone. She went to him and he put his arms around her.

"I'm sorry Pve been such a sonofabitch."

"You haven't been. And I love you ... a whole bunch." She looked down into his face, and they smiled.

"You know, Kezia, the funny thing is that no matter how hard you run, you can't run away from it. But I got a lot done. I guess that's something at least." It was the first hint he'd given her that he was scared too. It was like a train heading straight for their life, and their feet were rooted to the tracks while it just kept coming at them . . . and coming and coming and coming . . . and. . . .

"Kezia . . ."

"Yes, love?"

"Let's go to bed." He took her by the hand, and they walked quietly into the bedroom. The Christmas tree still stood tall in a living room corner, shedding needles all over the floor, the branches beginning to droop dryly from the weight of the ornaments. "I wanted to take that down for you this week."

"We can do it when we get back." He nodded and then stopped in the doorway, looking at something over her head, but still holding her hand.

"Kezia, I want you to understand something. They might take me away at the hearing. I want you to know that, and accept it, because if it happens, it happens, and I don't want you falling apart"

"I won't" But her voice was shaken and tiny.

"Noblesse oblige?" His accent was funny and she smiled. The words meant "Nobility obliges"; she'd grown up with it all of her life. The obligation to keep your chin up, no matter who sawed off your legs at the knee; the ability to serve tea with the roof coming down around your ears; the charm of developing an ulcer while wearing a smile. Noblesse oblige.

"Yeah, noblesse oblige, and partly something else maybe." Her voice was strong again now. "I think I could keep it together because I love you as much as I do. Don't worry. I won't fall apart." But she didn't understand it either, nor could she accept it. It couldn't happen to them. And maybe it wouldn't . . . or maybe it would.

"You're a beautiful lady, sweet Kezia." He put his arms around her again, and they stood in the doorway for a long, long time.

Their mood on the plane was almost hysterically festive. They had decided to travel first-class.

"First-class all the way. Thaf s my girl." He was prominently carrying his new Vuitton briefcase, and ostentatiously wearing the brown suede Gucci shoes. They had agreed that the brown suede were the wealthier looking.

"Lucas, pull your feet in." She giggled at him; he was deliberately dangling one foot in the aisle.

"Then they won't see my shoes." He lit a cigar from the new shipment from Romanoff, and flapped the Pucci tie in her face.

"You're a nut, Mr. Johns."

"So are you." They exchanged a honeymoon smooch and the stewardess looked over and smiled. They were a good-looking couple. And so happy they were almost ridiculous.

"Want some champagne?" He was fumbling around in

his briefcase.

"I don't think they'll serve it till we're off the ground."

"Thaf s their business, Mama. Me, I bring my own." He grinned broadly at her.

"Lucas, you didn't!"

"I most certainly did." He pulled out a bottle of vintage Moet et Chandon and two plastic glasses, also a small tin of caviar. In four months he had developed a fondness for much of her way of life, while still keeping his own view and perspective. Together they filtered out the best of both worlds and made it their own. Mostly, the "posh" things amused him, but there were certain things he truly liked. Caviar was one of them. And so was pat£. The Gucci shoes were a lark, and she knew that's how he'd feel, which was why she had bought them.

"Want some champagne?" she nodded, smiling, and reached out for one of the two plastic glasses.

"What are you looking so funny about?"

"Who, me?" And then she started to laugh, and leaned over and kissed him. "Because I brought some too." She opened her tote bag, and pointed at the bottle lying on the top. Louis Roederer, though not quite as vintage a year as his Moet But still, not a bad one. "Darling, aren't we chic?"

"It's a wine-tasting party!" Stealthily they guzzled champagne and devoured the caviar; they necked during the movie, and traded old jokes, which got sillier by the hour and the glass. It was like leaving on a vacation. And he had promised her that he would be all hers the next day. No appointments, no meetings, no friends. They would have the day to themselves. She had taken reservations at the Fairmont, just for the hell of it; a suite in the tower, for a hundred and eighty-six dollars a day.

The plane landed smoothly in San Francisco, just before three o'clock. They had the rest of the afternoon and the evening before them. Their rented limousine was waiting, and the chauffeur took their baggage stubs, so they could head for the car. Luke was as anxious as Kezia to avoid any publicity. This was no time for that.

"Do you think he noticed my shoes?"

She looked down at them pensively for a moment. "You know, maybe I should have bought them in red."

"Maybe I should have made love to you during the movie. No one would have seen."

"How about in the car?" She settled back on the seat, and automatically pressed the button to raise the glass between their seat and the chauffeur's. He was still hunting for their bags.

"Baby, that may cut out the sound track, but if we're going to make love he'll still get a wide-angle view."

She laughed with him at the thought "Want some more champagne, Lucas?"

"You mean there's more left?" She nodded, smiling, and produced the remaining half bottle of Roederer.

They had polished off the Moet et Chandon. He produced the plastic glasses from his briefcase, and they poured another healthy round.

"You know, Lucas, we really have a great deal of class. Or is it panache? Possibly . . . style." She was thinking it over, the glass tilted slightly in one hand.

"I think you're drunk."

"I think you're gorgeous, and what's more, I think I love you." She made a passionate lunge at him, and he groaned as her champagne flew at the window, and his splashed on the floor.

"Not only are you drunk, but you're a sloppy drunk. Just look at the Honorable Miss Kezia Saint Martin."

"Why can't I be Kezia Johns?" She sank back into the corner with her empty champagne glass, and waited for him to refill it, a pout taking over her face. He eyed her curiously for a long moment and cocked his head to one side.

"Are you serious or drunk, Kezia?" This was important to him.

"Both. And I want to get married." She looked as though she were going to add, "And so there!" but she didn't.

"When?"

"Now. Let's get married now. Want to fly to Vegas?" She brightened at the thought. "Or is it Reno? I've never gotten married before. Did you know I'm an old maid?" She smiled primly, as though she had revealed a marvelous secret.

"Jesus, baby, you're shitfaced."

"I most certainly am notl How dare you say such a thing?"

"Because Fve been supplying the champagne. Kezia, be serious for a minute. Do you really want to get married?"

"Yes. Right now."

"No. Not right now, you nut. But maybe later this week. Depending on ... well, well see." The accidental reference to the impending hearing had gone over her head, and he was grateful for that. She was thoroughly plastered.

"You don't want to marry me." She was getting close to champagne-induced tears, and he was trying hard not to laugh.

"I don't want to many you when you're drunk, stupid. That's immoral." But there was a special smile on his face. My God, she wanted to marry him. Kezia Saint Martin, the girl in the papers. And here he was in a limo wearing Gucci shoes, on his way to a suite at the Fairmont. He felt like a kid with ten electric trains. "Lady, I love you. Even if you are shitfaced."

"I want to make love."

"Oh God." Luke rolled his eyes, and the chauffeur slid into his seat behind the wheel. A moment later the car pulled away from the curb. Neither of them had seen the unmarked car drive up behind them. They were being followed again, but by now they were used to it. It was a fixture.

"Where are we going?"

"To the Fairmont, remember?**

"Not to church?"

"Why the fuck would we want to go to church?"

"To get married."

"Oh, that kind of church . . . Later. How about getting engaged?" He looked at the signet ring on his hand again. He had been so pleased with the gift. But she saw the look in his eyes, and anticipated what he had in mind.

"You can't give me that I gave it to you. That would be Indian giving, not a proper engagement ... an Indian engagement? In any case, I dont believe it would be for real." She looked haughty and was listing badly to one side.

"I don't believe you're for real, Mama. But okay, if this one won't do it, let*s stop and get a 'proper'

engagement ring. What would you consider proper? I hope if s something smaller than a ten-carat diamond."

"That would be vulgar."

"Thafs a relief." He grinned at her, and she dropped the haughty look for a smile.

"I think I'd like something blue.**

"Oh. Like a turquoise?" He was teasing, but she was too drunk to see it.

"That would be pretty ... or a lapis patchouli. . . .**

"I think you mean lapis lazuli."

"Yes, that's who I mean. Sapphires are nice too, but they're too expensive, and they crack. My grandmother had a sapphire that. . ." He shut her up with a kiss, while pressing the button to lower the window separating them from the chauffeur.

"Is there a Tiffany's here?" He knew all the right names now. For a man who hadn't known the difference between a Pucci and a lap dog four months ago, he had learned the private dialect of the upper classes with astonishing speed. Bendel's, Cartier's, Parke Bernet, Gucci, Pucci, Van Cleef, and of course . . .

Tiffany, everyone's favorite supermarket for diamonds. And comparable stones. . . . undoubtedly, they would have something blue, other than turquoise. "Yes, sir. There's a Tiffany's here. On Grant Avenue."

"Then take us there before the hotel. Thanks." He rolled the window back into place. He had learned that one too.

"My God, Lucas, we're getting engaged? For real?" Tears sprang to her eyes as she smiled.

"Yes, but you're going to stay in the car. The papers would really love this one. Kezia Saint Martin gets engaged at Tiffany's, and the bride was noticeably inebriated."

"Noticeably shitfaced," she corrected.

"Excuse me." He gently relieved her of the empty glass she'd been holding, and kissed her. They rode into town sitting close together in the back of the car, his arm around her, a beatific smile on her face, and a look of peace on his that hadn't been there for weeks.

"Happy, Mama?"

"Very."

"Me too."

The driver stopped in front of the gray marble facade of Tiffany's on Grant Avenue, and Luke gave her a hasty kiss and dashed from the car, with a sobering admonition that she stay there.

"Ill be right back. Don't leave without me. And don't under any circumstances get out of the car. You'd fall flat on your ass." Then, as an afterthought, he stuck his head in the window and wagged a finger at her slightly hazed eyes. "And stay out of the champagne!"

"Go to hell!"

"I love you too." He gave her a quick wave over his shoulder as he dashed into the store. It seemed like only five minutes before he was back.

"Show me what you got!"She was so excited she could hardly sit still. Unlike other women at her age, this was the first time she'd gotten engaged.

"I'm sorry, baby. They didn't have anything I liked, so I didn't get anything."

"Nothing?" she looked crushed.

"No . . . and to tell you the truth, they didn't have a thing I could afford."

"Oh shit."

"Darling, I'm sorry." He looked crestfallen and held her close.